


Strange and Beautiful

by orphan_account



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: ADHD, Cancer, F/F, Fem!Stiles - Freeform, Leukemia, Multi, Schizophrenia, Therapy Group - Freeform, human!Lydia, multi-chapter, study partners
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-29
Updated: 2014-04-16
Packaged: 2017-12-27 22:59:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/984653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lydia Martin is charismatic, beautiful, intelligent...and battling with schizophrenia. Stiles is awkward, strange, nerdy...and recovering from leukemia. The two couldn't possibly have anything in common, but when a summer holidays therapy group forcibly shoves the two girls together an unexpected friendship forms, and maybe something more if Stiles can get her way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> General side-note: Lydia's point of view is written by Diagnonsense; Stiles' point of view is written by bloodypomegranate.

**Chapter 1: Lydia POV**

  


“I don’t want to go.” I stated, somewhat childishly, my arms crossed over my chest as I sat in the passenger seat of my mom’s car, the woman herself holding the door open for me patiently. She gave me a tired look, but still refused to give in, shutting the car door firmly and walking around the car to get in behind the wheel. I watched her with narrowed eyes, hunched over slightly, wishing that for once she would give in to my whining (however much of it I had to force on her). But she stayed silent, ignoring my glare and how blatantly immature I was being, inserting her keys into the ignition and starting the engine.

Today, I’m annoyed by many things. The main problem being that it’s the second day of summer break and I have to spend part of my day in a room full of people I don’t know nor want to be around. And I’ll have to do this once a week, every week, all break. Most people would still be in bed, taking advantage of the next two months of not needing to get up before eight-am; or heading off to another state or country for the next few weeks to enjoy themselves. Most people would be looking forward to two months of peace with no homework, no other agendas, and no stress.

But then again, most people don’t have what I have.

I knew for a fact the community centre was only a ten minute drive from where I live, but my anxiousness about going made it seem like we were driving across the entire state to get there. The silence in the car hung thicker than on a normal day, with no way of breaking it. I had nothing to say. So I opted for resting my head back against the headrest – I hadn’t gone to much effort to make my hair look nice this morning, anyway – and closed my eyes.

Cutting off the rest of the world in this way gives me a lot of space to think freely. With open eyes, my thoughts would sometimes race at a million miles an hour, jumping from one thing to the next with each sight my eyes would take in, and I have no control over it. When my eyes are closed, I still have a fast-paced mind, but at least I’m able to think for myself.

All I can think about is how stupid this whole thing is. Being stuck in a room with other teenagers who have similar problems and being made to talk about it isn’t exactly how I’d like to be spending every Sunday. Nor is it a very practical method to overcoming our difficulties. Mom said that since this is the first session of the holidays, I have to go, which of course led me to ask if I could skip all of the other eight sessions. She only replied with a vague, “We’ll see,” which from experience I can tell means no.

My eyes fluttered open as the car came to a halt in front of Beacon Hills’ sorry excuse for a community building, my nose crinkling in displeasure at the sight of it. It was just one huge, grey, dismal cube with medium sized windows and only one exit. The words ‘BEACON HILLS COMMUNITY CENTRE’ above the door had been painted on in white, blocky letters what was probably decades ago and were now faded and scraped away. With a small groan, I cast one last pleading glance at my mother, who responded indifferently, before grabbing my handbag and pushing open the door of the car.

I was only five minutes late, but by the looks of things everyone had gotten there exactly at eleven. The small group of what I guessed was between ten and fifteen less-than-excited looking teens sat in a circle on blue-grey plastic chairs, swinging their legs, twiddling their thumbs or biting their nails as they looked up at a middle-aged woman who seemed to be the only person excited to be there. My hopes to somehow join the group unnoticed were quickly drowned as the bubbly community worker turned to look at me with a way-too-sincere smile, showing off two rows of pearly white teeth. I stopped immediately as every other head turned towards me, about a dozen pairs of eyes settling on me. Any other day I would drink up the attention, but not today, and certainly not this kind of attention.

I kept my eye contact with the group, as if they would suddenly turn into rabid dogs and attack if I looked away, as I slowly put down my bag by all the others against the wall and grabbed one of the cold plastic chairs. Half-heartedly carrying the chair towards the circle, I felt my worries skyrocket as I found myself recognizing a couple of familiar faces from Beacon Hills High School. The fear that they would recognize me, either here or in the classroom when school started again, was far too great for me to sit next to either of them, so I slid my chair in between two guys I’d never seen before in my life and sat down.

By now most eyes were thankfully turned back to the woman leading the session as she began to make a glorified speech about why we were here and what we’d be accomplishing over the break. It seemed like it would stretch on forever, but when she finally drew her lecture to a close and I chanced a peek at the clock on the wall, only four minutes had passed and my patience was already wearing thin. With a huff, I crossed my arms and sat back in the uncomfortable seat as we were encouraged to go around the circle and introduce ourselves and say why we were here.

I couldn’t bring myself to pay much attention to what everyone else was saying, but in such a vast space where even the buzz of a fly would echo off the walls, I wasn’t able to tune out completely either. As everyone’s slowly draining attention moved from one person who had depression to the next with social anxiety, my eyes slowly scanned around the blaring white walls covered in bright posters whose large headings shouted, ‘BREATHING TECHNIQUES’, ‘LIVING WITH AUTISM’, ‘BULIMA VS. ANOREXIA’, and just about anything else that covered every disorder or syndrome you could name. Eventually I’d read the heading of every single poster, so my eyes slowly flicked back to the people sitting around me. We’d passed one person I recognized – a panic-stricken girl with slightly frizzy blonde hair, tired features and a tendency to have epileptic fits – but the person who really caught my attention was separated from her by three other people, and they were staring right back at me.

He – or she, if they’d managed to hide all their hair underneath the beanie they were wearing – was looking at me with a shocked expression, as if they couldn’t believe I was sitting across the room from them. It was a bit unnerving, really, to be stared at with such perseverance, but luckily their attention was cast away from me as it became their turn to speak. I watched, now a little intrigued by this person. Did they know me? Were they expecting me to recognize them? I’m sure I’d remember someone with what looked like they had no hair dressed in baggy jeans and a hoodie with ‘Bad Wolf’ in graffiti-like scrawl across the front.

“Hey,” she started in a distinctly feminine but still quite low-pitched voice, seeming quite comfortable with all the eyes on her, “I’m Stiles. I’d rather be at home playing video games, but people say I’d benefit from this, so I’m here. I’m sure you can all share the immense joy I feel,” she stated sarcastically, letting a couple of seconds pass before speaking again.

“I’m a survivor of prostate cancer,” Stiles announced, looking around the room with a small grin on her face, which was quickly wiped off when no one else understood or founder humor in her ‘joke’, “Well…okay, it was leukaemia, but cancer’s cancer…”

It amazed me how quickly she went from being amused to downtrodden, with a small smile reappearing on her face a few seconds into the next person’s introduction. How could someone who seemed so at peace with herself, who could laugh and smile and talk openly about her problems, be in a place like this? Obviously no one else could do that – I hadn’t seen one person smile other than her and the community worker running the session. Which begged the question: was she as happy as she let on, or was it all a mask?

Between Stiles and I, there were five other people. And unfortunately, their introductions were extremely brief. Depression, suicidal, OCD, PTSD, depression, and then it was my turn. Suddenly twelve pairs of eyes felt like they were burning holes into my skull, waiting for me to speak.

“I…I’m Lydia Martin…” I started, with less confidence than I’d thought I had, “And I…”

A lump formed in my throat, thick and restricting. If there’s anything in the world that gets me choked up, it’s talking about this to people. Especially people I don’t know. And when I get like this my eyes start to burn and my vision goes blank and it feels like I can’t breathe. All I can do is convince myself that things are okay, that people aren’t going to laugh or start whispering.

“…And I have schizophrenia.”

After what felt like forever, the words left my lips, along with the feeling of compression in my chest. But my eyes still throbbed and prickled with tears of humiliation that threatened to spill over. No, I couldn’t cry, I refuse to cry in front of complete strangers – particularly ones that could recognize me at school.

At first there was nothing but silence, but one by one each pair of eyes left me and switched to the fifteen-year-old sitting on my left as he began to talk about his early drug addiction. But somehow, I still felt like they were all secretly laughing at me on the inside. Their thoughts felt so loud that I could just about hear them myself: freak, crazy, delusional…they never stop.

“Well, it’s nice to see some new faces,” the community worker speaks up in her annoyingly bubbly voice. Has everyone spoken already? “And welcome back to those who were with us last year.” Yes, everyone’s already introduced themselves. I’d zoned out again. “Rest assured that this is a safe environment, and over the break I hope that you’ll all…”

All that noise drowned out as I pushed it away. I’d heard it all before. Nothing’s wrong, we can speak freely. I’ve heard that way too many times for it to be true.

Glancing around at all the blank faces again, my attention was recaptured once again by Stiles’ eyes on me. She looked caught between being worried and quizzical, which only caused my heart to pound harder in my ears. Oh God, the last thing I need is being asked prying questions, or being pitied, or looked down upon. Had she noticed I’d zoned out? Was she inwardly laughing about it? Was she waiting to see what I’d do next?

There’s nothing like insecurity to make you feel like a sideshow freak.

Half an hour into the lesson, I developed more control of myself. I became less of a nervous, paranoid wreck (although the voices still lingered), and more of a quiet stand-by person in the background. The only one who made less of an effort than me was the other kid I recognized from school – curly hair, constantly crossed arms and grit teeth, his anger obviously bubbling close to the brim. As I recall, he didn’t say why he was here with us.

Ten minutes before I’d be freed of this hellhole called ‘therapy’ – for another week, anyway – we were asked to get into pairs and sit opposite each other in our own space on the horrible mustard-colored lino floor, and get to know each other. I wasn’t the only one to let slip an audibly unenthused groan. However, most people seemed to have already decided who they could tolerate the most to sit with for ten minutes, and for once I was left by myself. I whipped my head around, praying I wouldn’t be the awkward odd-one-out, when my eyes landed on the only other person left without a partner, glad in a beanie and ‘Bad Wolf’ hoodie.

I had to bite my lip to hold in a second groan.

Stiles was more than eager as she strolled over to me, giving me a lopsided grin, stuffing her hands into her pockets. I couldn’t help but find her optimism irritating. With a huff I walked to an empty space in the room, the other girl’s Converse squeaking on the floor behind me as she followed. I refused to sit on the dusty floor, so instead we stood there for ten of the longest, most awkward seconds I can remember being put through.

“It’s like preschool all over again,” she mumbled, scuffing her feet on the lino and creating more of that annoying screeching of rubber.

I’m not sure I would’ve agreed even on a good day. Nothing about that statement sparked any sense of humor in me – especially not the truth to it and its implication that we were being treated like dumb six-year-olds. With another small huff of air, I let another colorful poster on the wall about split personality disorder catch my attention.

The lack of interest I had in her seemed to dumbfound Stiles – and acted as a catalyst to make her try harder.

“So, um…my name’s Stiles…”

“Yeah, I know,” I muttered through grit teeth, “You said that.”

“Oh.” I could feel whatever look she had on her face fall into a frown as the one word escaped her lips. At that point I was sure she was finished trying to make conversation, but then…

“I sit behind you in chemistry.”

The statement was enough to make me freeze on the spot and turn my head to look at her with wide eyes, “Excuse me?”

“I…I sit behind you in chemistry,” she repeated awkwardly, “I mean I’m in most of your classes…”

During the stunned silence that followed, I only blinked at her, feeling like a deer in the headlights.

“Well I was…” she continued, rubbing the back of her neck and looking at her feet, “I wasn’t in school for most of last year because of chemo, but this year I think I’ll be–”

“Look.” I interrupted firmly, looking straight into her dark brown eyes with my usual look of determination that most people say resembles a wolf eyeing its prey, “How about you just don’t talk to me.”

Her face fell again, disappointment replacing her general upbeat attitude, “Yeah…a-alright…”

I pulled my eyes away from hers and focused them back on the bright poster that told me how to deal with someone with a split personality. Soon enough, it was time to go. I was the first to grab my bag and whisk out the door into the heat. I’d rather die of heatstroke waiting for my mom to pick me up, as she insisted, than wait inside a second longer.

Instinctively I pulled my phone out of my bag and unlocked it, seeing an alarming amount of texts and missed calls from the girls I sat with in the school cafeteria every lunch. This is what happens when I leave my phone for an hour, I think to myself with a smirk as I speed-dialed the first red number my thumb tapped. They really are hopeless without a leader.

“Lydia!” the girl on the other end of the phone, Ashley, squealed before the phone could ring twice, “Where are you?!”

Sighing, I plastered a smile on my face and fell back into my usual routine.

“At home,” I lied, convincingly enough for her, “Where else would I be?”

“You weren’t answering your phone!” she complained. I paced slightly as I listened to her high-pitched voice, feeling a pair of eyes on me that I assumed belonged to Stiles.

“I was…asleep,” I told her, running a hand through my hair. A groan was her immediate response.

“Girl, get over to Tiffany’s!” she persuaded me, “She’s having her annual summer pool party, remember? Everyone’s here!”

“Oh…right. Yeah, I remember.” Lie. “I’ll be there in an hour. Save me a piña colada?”

Whatever long and squeal-infested response she had for me, I had no time to hear it. Hanging up almost instantly, I put my phone back in my handbag and breathed a sigh of relief as I saw mom’s car pulling into the car park. I had exactly forty-five minutes to get home, wash off my makeup, put on a bikini that would turn heads but wouldn’t pass as slutty, find a matching sundress to wear over the top, pack everything from a towel to sunglasses, and get in my own car to drive to Tiffany’s before one.

Taking a small breath and preparing myself for the inevitable interrogation my mother had waiting for me, I risked a small glance behind me to the person I still felt watching me.

I was hardly surprised to only see Stiles.

“What?” I demanded, noticing her face was fixed with a perplexed expression again. She only answered with a shrug, dropping her gaze to her feet.

“See you next week,” she muttered, only just loud enough for me to hear. I rolled my eyes.

“Don’t count on it,” I retorted, opening the door of my mom’s car and sliding in, my bad mood returning at the acknowledgment that I’d definitely be dragged back here next Saturday.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2: Stiles POV**

  


The chair was uncomfortable, a muddy mahogany colour with tight, stiff leather and a frame that came halfway up your back. It seemed old but had hardly been worn in, probably given that when a student sat in this chair; they generally weren’t relaxed or slouched, the Principle of the school sitting directly in front of them with his orderly desk and stacks of papers. I myself had sat in this chair for many different offenses – it could be why I was so ridged now, even though my reason for being here was far from the usual being caught sleeping in class or scrawling ‘BAD WOLF’ on the table.

No, I was smiling and my father beside me, he was smiling also, except his was less of a satisfied grin and more a wry ‘I’m proud of you’ smile. And given I didn’t generally find much reason for my dad to be proud, I drunk it up.

The Principle coughed, rough and throaty, as he sat down holding my school record that was slightly fatter than that of the average student – lists of detentions, suspensions and medical documents fillings its interior. Having spent nearly a year away from this cinderblock nightmare of social classes and stereotypes I found myself feeling a strange sort of accomplishment.

I’d beat the cancer, overturned the odds and cured myself of a disease without a cure. Of course I use the term ‘cure’ lightly, there was still a way to go, but starting school again was a big step.

Currently the halls were empty; a new year wouldn’t start for nearly another month, the long summer still at large and the sun still baking the concrete outside.

I felt myself staring vacantly out the window, thoughts hitting me like arrows of both excited anticipation and fear before a gruff voice took me back into the room.

“Now Sheriff, everything has been put in order for–”

“Stiles,” I quickly uttered the name before he could read aloud what was written on the the paper.

The Principle gave me an odd look, a glance to the paper and a small glimmer of recollection seemed to dawn in his eyes, “–Stiles’ transition back into school life. I’ve spoken to the bored and you’ll be assigned a tutor by the teachers at the beginning of sophomore year,”

I frowned and was about to speak, but dad seemed to open his mouth first, “Now hold on, did you say sophomore year? Stiles is meant to be a junior,”

The Principle nodded, seeming tired, “Yes, but given the amount of school she missed–”

“It wasn’t that much!” I interrupted and they both gave me a trying look, the usual reaction to my outbursts when it came to those used to them.

He pursed his lips as if he was carefully planning how to continue with this ‘delicate’ discussion, “You attended around two weeks in total if we add up half-days scattered around here and there, which is definitely not enough to have a fully grasped knowledge of the past year…”

I felt a mix of frustration and anger well in my stomach, “I did my assignments in-between chemo. I completed the essays while hurling in the toilet. And then I scraped through my exams,”

“Miss Stilinski, you did the bare minimum and given your past records and other medical… afflictions… I’ve made an educated assessment of where I believe you’ll do best, which is repeating the year,” The Principle explained, looking exasperated – but I wasn’t taking any of it.

Dad sighed, seeming too tired to be dealing with this, “But she did get through it, Stiles… she’s a smart kid. She can catch up. She doesn’t need to repeat,”

He seemed sort of huff as if we were wasting his precious time, “There are considerable gaps in your education… but if you believe you can do it–”

“I can,” I spoke stubbornly.

“–then legally you’re able, however I do advise otherwise.” He finished.

It really hadn’t taken much to sway his view, but then again, I doubt he cared whether a sickly delinquent social reject was ‘achieving their full potential’ and an optimum SAT score. He had more important students to worry about. Like the ones who’re gonna get somewhere with their lives. Lacrosse stars and future mathematicians.

I grinned, “That’s settled then. I’m going into junior year,”

“I’ll arrange it,” he muttered, beginning to shuffle through some paperwork as my dad and I excused ourselves back into the eerily bare corridors.

Running my fingers over my centimetre thick hair, I grinned and my dad clapped his hand on my shoulder, and quietly muttered, “Your mom would be proud,”

“She’d be proud of you too,” I looked at him and he smiled, before flicking the keys around his finger and setting towards the door.

Neither of us had ever been overly affectionate, I remember mom would always joke how her husband was ‘emotionally stunted’ and how he could never form words or sentences when it came to expressing his feelings. These genes of course were carried onto me, so I learnt pretty early in life that when it came to myself and my father… well, it’d always be the little gestures. Not the giant bouts of love and affection, but weight in small sentences and short words. We were the people who wrote one simple line on birthday cards and kinda hoped that the receiver wouldn’t be offended.

Still, feeling pleased with myself I climbed into my dad’s police car. I didn’t seem to matter that I’ve been carted around in the thing for majority of my life, I still for some reason felt like a criminal sitting in it.

Unfazed by the noises of the radio and the humming of the car, I slumped, watching everything pass outside the window in a blur of color and still my faint frowning reflection. I stared until it seemed my face had merged with the varying greens of the forest.

When I thought about my identity, I really didn’t quite understand what exactly it consisted of. I was an extreme extrovert with a single friend and without any sort of social understanding who too often seemed to retreat within herself. I didn’t know whether I was actually confused and overwhelmed or if it was just the ADHD. A little bit this and kinda sorta that. A contradiction. A stereotype. Not a stereotype. Gah.

It actually irritated me how driving towards group therapy made me actually contemplate my entire understanding of myself and the universe and whatever Ghandi said once upon a time. Seriously, sometimes I wonder if group therapy is the central cause of my problems given as it induces seventeen minutes of contemplation of my entire being during a car trip. Not that I fully understood my problems. I was told I had them. And that told that telling other teenagers would make them go away. A fact I seriously doubted, but agreed to conform with nonetheless as it appeased my dad and made him feel as if he wasn’t failing at the whole parenting gig.

Of course as soon as I walked into the concrete block that passed as a community centre, all ideas on the meaning of the great philosophies of our time seemed to fly out the window and be replaced by a single straining boredom that could end all boredom. Except it didn’t because the meetings were annual each week.

Feeling awkward as I dragged a plastic chair across the floor, creating a loud screeching noise, I took my seat and reviewed the room, not because I needed to – this place never changed – but because there was literally nothing better to do.

Whitewash walls with patches covering the offensive scrawl. LED lights that highlighted the very worst of a teenager’s complexion. Tacky posters telling us how to deal with depression and anxiety and about every other common mental illness you could think of (including my very own ADHD). So very inspiring. Of course there was one perk to this dismal room that was far too large for the small gathering of teens who wanted anything but to be there, and her name was Lydia Martin.

As the red-headed, red-lipped girl walked in looking sour, I smiled slightly to myself. Yes, this was the reason I came to these things. I lied earlier. My dad could easily deal if I wished not to continue, but the fact that she’s sitting a few seats away with a ridiculously and yet wonderfully short skirt, and those legs… well suddenly I’m not really so bored as my eyes have something to really look at.

God I’m the worst perv. I really should be ashamed, but I’m really not. I’m not exactly in the business of denying myself the simple pleasures of life and looking at Lydia Martin was one of those pleasures.

And yet… I never really could discern why she was here. Okay yes, schizophrenia, but you have to understand that Lydia is perfect. Literally the girl I’d loved since third grade and fantasized about since hormones kicked in. How could she end up spending her summer break in a little room discussing our feelings as vaguely as possible with a group of misfits, rejects and the socially challenged?

Well, she didn’t really discuss, she just sat there looking pissed as fuck (which I tried not to find hot) while the rest of us tripped over our words. The only person who spoke less than her was Isaac, who wasn’t even included in the group really, he kinda just sat there with his arms folded across his chest listening. ‘My name is Isaac’ is the only thing he’s actually said during the sessions. He just said it. And then sat there.

I believe that was the moment that I began thinking he was kinda cool, but that really isn’t the point.

The point is that the session just started.

It begins with an overly enthusiastic lady with a clip bored telling us why we were there. A speech I’d heard too many times. It goes for about three minutes and thirty-seven seconds, depending on how many times she clears her throat and how stuffy the room is. Today the air-conditioner was actually working so she finished sixteen seconds before the average. I made a mental note.

“Okay, let’s begin by introducing ourselves and one special fact about ourselves that nobody really knows,”

Oh God, thank the heavens for Lydia Martin. This is gonna be a long session.

  


Afterwards, a few of us packed up the chairs and cleared space for the soon-to-be-mothers group that came in afterwards to do some sort of new-age calming yoga-thing. I didn’t really understand how it worked given (1) I’d never been to a new-age calming yoga-thing for soon-to-be-mothers, (2) many of the woman were heavily pregnant and could hardly walk in the door and (3) how could you be calm when there is a thing growing inside you and sucking away your life force? I would never be able to contemplate the appeal.

Not that I’d have to worry about pregnancy when it came to sex. If I ever actually have sex. One day. Maybe. When I’m older, less gawky and not bald.

But again, that’s beside the point.

Waiting outside in the sun as cars slowly rolled in to collect their kids, I saw Lydia standing under a tree looking at her phone. Do I walk over there? Do I not? I’m dying in the sun. Will she care? Will she recognise me? Do I smell okay? Yeah, I do. I’m gonna walk over there.

And I did, and she didn’t even glance up. Eventually we were the only two left. Leaning back against the tired old willow tree, I sighed, “It’s too damn hot,”

“If you’re trying to start up a conversation by assessing what’s obvious, stop now,” she muttered without looking from texting.

I smiled to myself, “You know, you’re too smart for therapy,”

Now she smirked, “Again with the stating of the obvious. I’m too smart for most things.”

“Exactly,” I nodded stupidly and pressed my lips together so that no more idiotic phrases would escape me. Believe it or not I am intelligent. It’s just something about being within the vicinity of Lydia that made me lose my head. A head that usually was pretty calm no matter what.

After a while the police car pulled up on the curb and I climbed in, missing Lydia cast a small and slightly quizzical glance before returning to her texting with a nonchalant shrug.

“How was the session?” Dad asked conversationally.

Slightly dazed, I looked at him blankly.

“The what?”

He chuckled, “I think you stood in the sun to long,”


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3: Lydia POV**

  


I bounced my foot impatiently against the floor of the car and watched the time on my phone with a grumble. It’s only been two minutes. The doctor said to wait at least five. Wanting to pass the time as quickly as I could, I examined the label on the little orange bottle in my other hand.

_Common side effects of Clozapine include: ___

_Blurred vision_  
 _Drooling, especially at night_  
 _Drowsiness and_  
 _Dizziness_  


It sucks, but at least it’s better than what they used to prescribe me.

I looked at the time again. 8:26am. Same as when I looked twenty seconds ago. School would start in four minutes. If I waited three to let my medication start to take effect, I’d only have a minute to force through the sea of people and grab my books. I would be late. For biology. I can’t be late for that.

With a groan, I stuffed the transparent bottle of pills into the bottom of my purse, which I swung over my shoulder as I climbed out of the car. These pills would just have to hurry up and take effect quicker.

Since it’s the first day, the mass of teenagers flooding into the school is even slower than usual. From the freshmen who have no idea where they’re going to the seniors who just don’t want to be there, everyone is doing their part to hold up the usually fast-paced flow of the crowd. And while it does give the Clozapine time to kick in before class, it’s keeping me away from my books longer and ensuring that the time I have to get them and get to class on time is shorter.

I’m never in a very good mood on the exceedingly rare occasion I actually take my medication like I was told to. Being stuck in a loud human gridlock at 8:30 in the morning doesn’t exactly quell the burning irritation I feel.

First reason of why I never take my medication. Second reason is because it affects my performance levels in class (but apparently ‘not as much as if you didn’t take it’, according to my mom, who doesn’t know I don’t actually swallow the tablets). Today was an exception, for the sole reason that it was the first day at school and I tend to get a tiny bit stressed out. When I’m stressed, I tend to…not handle things as well as usual.

By the time I reached my locker, I’d already decided that since most people would be late to class anyway, because of the thick crowd or just because they didn’t care, I could risk going at my normal pace. The handle of my locker felt cold and unfamiliar from two solid months of being unused. My locker wasn’t much different on the inside. The other side of the door was still bare from where picture upon picture had been ripped off and scrunched up. Now it was just bleak, metallic grey.

The sight still made me cringe a little.

The only thing on the inside of my locker door was a little mirror. I didn’t need to double-check that I looked good – I was already turning heads – but I cast a glance anyway. On days like these I couldn’t help but hold the tiniest amount of self-doubt. I felt groggy and a little sick. It felt like someone else was staring back at me with the same bright green eyes and cherry red lips. But a feeling like that was easy to push down and replace with confidence – false or not. Grabbing my binder of notes and a pen for a double period of biology withMr. Harris, I turned on my heels (I, for once, had decided to wear ballet flats instead of my usual heels to match the short and flattering floral dress I had on) to cast a smirk and a wink at a group of freshmen eyeing me from across the hall before walking purposefully towards the science lab.

Well, it was less crowded inside the classroom, but it felt even more like enthusiasm had gone there to die than in the hallway. Even Mr. Harris looked like he’d rather jump out the window than teach us for two hours. With a huff I glanced around the classroom, which was still yet to fill considerably, before taking my usual seat at a bench at the front.

By 8:35 a considerable number of people were starting to file into the classroom. I cast a few wry smirks to counter winks and cocky grins thrown in my direction, but luckily Mr. Harris was already too impatient and called the class to order before I could get too many idiots thinking I’d be any less immune to their stupidity than I was last semester. I opened my notebook to the next new page and took out a pen as he began writing questions from last year on the board, just to see how many of us actually bothered to study over the summer break.

When I came to the fifth question, while no doubt most other people were stuck on question two because they couldn’t remember the difference between homozygous and heterozygous, I became momentarily distracted by the squeaking of the door as it opened, and a sarcastic, “Glad you could join us, Miss Stilinski,” from Mr. Harris. The surname sounded familiar, but it didn’t ring any bells, so I ignored it and didn’t bother looking up.

That is, until they sat next to me.

I’d kind of been hoping Allison had come in late with the other girl and had taken her usual spot beside me, but apparently she just hadn’t shown up today. I was more than a little shocked to see a much too familiar pale face, with two outstanding freckles (or moles – whatever they were) on one cheek and one on the other. Rich brown eyes looked back at me kindly, while mine were probably wider than one would think possible; lips that looked as though they were chewed on routinely curled into a small and patient smile. And of course I couldn’t not recognize her by her hair, which had grown down to her chin in loose brunette curls over the summer break. Not to mention the Star Wars t-shirt she wore, accompanied by jeans and her usual Converse.

Yes, it was definitely Stiles.

“Uh…hi,” she beamed wider, seemingly proud of herself for not stuttering or tripping over her words the first time, something I’d learned she usually did. I just turned back to finishing my questions, not out of trying to be rude, but just because I didn’t want to get called out for talking in my first class of the new semester.

“Your hair’s grown,” I pointed out when conversation buzzed up around us as our fellow classmates finally finished the ten questions.

“Yeah, that’s kinda what hair does,” she replied with a nervous laugh.

I wasn’t in the mood for jokes, so I pursed my lips and looked down at her feet, “Do you even own more than one pair of shoes?”

Stiles frowned, looking almost offended, “Yeah but these are comfortable.”

I opened my mouth, but with no reply in mind, I shut it again. I don’t think you could say anything to this girl without her replying innocently, sarcastically or with a joke. Thankfully,Mr. Harris approached our bench and cleared his throat, relieving me of the difficult task of finding something to say.

“Miss Martin,” he sighed, like he really didn’t want to be having this conversation, “by her father’s request, Miss Stilinski here will require frequent tutoring due to her…prolonged absence from school. Since you’re the only student of mine who doesn’t constantly overwhelm me with the urge to slam my head in a car door, I’ve assigned you the…tiresome chore.”

My jaw dropped a little. The words ‘frequent tutoring’ worried me more than any of the others in Mr. Harris’ lengthy sentence. Biology may have been one of my strong subjects, but there was a reason why I’d never had the aspiration to become a teacher. Especially not for someone like Stiles, who had a whole year’s worth of schoolwork to catch up on. Couldn’t I just give her a copy of my notes and be done with it?

At the first sign I was going to protest, our teacher adjusted the thick-rimmed glasses on his nose and walked back to the safe-spot between his desk and the blackboard. I let out a small huff and clicked my pen to jot down new notes.

“So…w-what days are good for you?” Stiles asked awkwardly, clearing her throat at the end and giving me an obviously nervous smile. While I wouldn’t be happy about this on a good day, my moodiness today heightened it all, and in return I managed to muster an unamused glare. Stiles averted her eyes awkwardly and bit her lip, turning quickly back to her notes and hunching over like she wanted to disappear.

I’d say we were back at square one, but that would be implying we’d left it in the first place.

  


**Stiles POV**

  
I slammed my locker shut, slightly harder than usual although I didn’t really notice given my buzzing excitement. Usually I was actually quite cautious of who peered into my locker given my slightly revealing comic poster of Black Widow that could raise a few questions on exactly which side of the fence I sat on. Plus it was a complete mess, full of random sheets of paper and old gym socks and dead pens and a stolen stapler – all that would fall out if I didn’t shut the metal door quick enough.

Scott leaned against the locker beside, “I cannot believe you still have that poster,”

“It’s a great poster,” I grin slightly, hitching my backpack over my shoulder, heavy with textbooks that I like to think I’d actually use, but after today, they’ll probably just sit in my locker for the year with everything else.

“Sure,” he mutters, however less enthusiastic than myself, “So, my place or yours?” he asks, then sees me break into a grin, “Don’t be immature,”

I laugh, shaking my head, “Yours. I have no food aside from dog food. I mean, we don’t even have a dog… where did the dog food come from…”

“It’s one of the world’s greatest mysteries,” Scott chuckled as we walked out to my battered Jeep parked in the furthest corner of the parking lot due to how I never really grasped the ability of getting to school on time.

Climbing in, the engine roared to life and Scott rolled down the window. Even though the summer had ended, it seemed that the smouldering heat didn’t get the memo, “You need to get the AC fixed at some point,”

“I survived the entire summer without air con, and I don’t have the money right now. I’m saving up for Portal 2 and BioShock Infinite,” I grinned, resting my arm on the side of the window and the other hand loosely guiding the wheel.

Scott sighed, “Because we all know gaming is more important than dying of heat stroke,”

“I’m done with dealing with death,” I spoke bitterly, remembering the struggle of the past year. At least that’s over; even therapy was over now… “Shit, I forgot to tell you didn’t I? Guess who was at group,”

Scott smirked, “Lydia Martin?”

I squinted in suspicion, “There’s something unnatural about you… but yeah, you’re right. I just don’t… understand. How did she end up there? She’s freaking perfect! Can’t wait until she notices my existence…”

My friend rolled his eyes, “I sometimes think you forget she’s straight,”

I ignored him, “Ten year plan, McCall. Ten. Year. Plan,”

“Your enthusiasm is inspiring, Stiles. Really,” sarcasm dripped off his voice and I scowled, “But seriously, she’s human. You put her on a podium, but not everybody can handle everything on their own,”

“True. But seriously, how’d you guess her? I mean, schizophrenia ain’t fun from what I’ve read but she… handles it well, I guess,” I trail off into thought, pondering her mental state.

Scott looked confused, “Wait, you don’t know? I thought I told you,”

“Told me what?” I spoke, worry unmistakable in my voice.

He made some wild gesture, “The whole… thing,”

“We really need to work on our communication,” I commented as I pulled up into their driveway. Scott and I climbed out of the jeep, sneakers thudding on the baking cement.

Entering the house I could smell something cooking in the kitchen; entering the room we found Melissa chopping vegetables.

“Hey mom,” Scott grinned, dumping his backpack beside the kitchen table.

She looked up with an affectionate smile, “Hey, how was your first day?”

He nodded, “It was good, lacrosse tryouts are next week,”

I smirked, “And we’re finally old enough to try out,”

Melissa sent me a quizzical look, “I didn’t know they allowed girls on the team…”

“That’s because none try out,” I pointed out, speaking optimistically.

She smiled fondly at the two of us, “Well, I hope you two get in, then,” then she turned back to the stove as Scott and I sat down, heaving text books onto the table and spreading them out between us.

“Only Mr Harris would give homework first day,” I sighed, slumping in my chair as I began reading through Chapter One of the assigned reading. Tapping my foot with a fast beat I felt the usual sort of knotting frustration that would manifest in my stomach – what happened when I forget to take my Adderall in the morning. Don’t get me wrong, I like learning and knowing things and being a smart-ass. It was just school I had a problem with, as it directly clashed with my ‘condition’. Sit in complete and utter silence in a room for an hour or so recounting everything I’ve lectured you on these last few months? That doesn’t agree with most teenagers, let alone fucking ADHD kids.

Education really takes the fun out of intelligence.

I looked to Scott, who was busy working away, head down and hunched. My eyes darted around the familiar room, drumming my fingers on the table in time with my foot. Listening to the sound of a bubbling soup pot and Melissa’s low humming and the tick of the clock and – fuck.

“Oh my God Stiles what?” Scott groaned, looking at me and I blinked out of my daze.

“I wanna know what the hell you forgot to tell me about Lydia,” I asked, seemingly calm, but the thought had been buzzing in my mind since we arrived home.

He stared at me, giving me the ‘are you fucking kidding me’ face which I encountered with people on a regular basis, before lowering his voice and leaning in, “Last year there was about…a month, I think, where she wasn’t at school,” he explained, “no one else really knows what had happened, thank God, but rumours spread. Mostly because before she dropped off the face of the earth, Jackson broke up with her in the middle of the cafeteria in front of everyone. Probably because she thought she could tell him and he flipped out.”

“Still don’t get how you know all this,” I commented, feeling confused.

He glanced back at his mom, who was still in the kitchen, not paying attention to us, and lowered his voice, “I was bringing mom a late dinner at the hospital and I saw her. Treating Lydia. She had scratches down her face like she’d tried to claw her eyes out or something.”

“Well…how do you know she was the one who put the scratches there?”

“Because her hands were tied down!” he whisper-yelled, as if it was obvious, “They’d put her wrists in restraints on the sides of the bed. It looked like she’d had a fit. She was still having it. Screaming and crying about…bugs or spiders in her eyes. Something like that.”

I blinked in shock. “Oh… shit. Wow, shit.”

“Yeah,” he nodded, “But a month later, she was back at school. Acting like it never happened.”

“I cannot believe you didn’t tell me this,” I spoke with surprise in my voice, contemplating what Scott had said, “You’re a dick,”

“You were in chemo, and I didn’t want to bother you with it. What did the Doctor say about added stresses?” Scott lectured and I rolled my eyes.

Shrugging, I accepted his excuse. I’d known myself for roughly sixteen years and in that time I’d learned three things; society sucks, Converse are cool and I love Lydia Martin. So, given the chance, I probably would’ve dragged myself to her home to just know she was okay. Even if I was throwing up in a toilet and feeling clumps of curly hair fall weightlessly from my scalp, I still probably would have. Good thing I came to terms with my obsessive stalker-like nature ages ago, or I might be worrying about my sanity.

“Yeah, whatever, but next time… next time you know something about Lydia that I don’t, tell me,” I informed him in all seriousness, but for some reason he found it funny.

He didn’t look surprised, “Sure, Stiles. But I’m going to continue with working, okay. You probably should also… I mean, do you really wanna be behind in your first week?”

I smirked with a small snort-laugh, “Yea– no. I’m going to go torrent music.”

“Your dad’s a police officer,” Scott stated the obvious with a frown and I could see Melissa smirking while silently listening, our conversation having grown louder now.

I looked at him with an amused look on my face, “So? I’m not – I’m bored and need new music,”

“But– oh God, fine. You know the wifi password right?” he sighed, looking exasperated.

I gave him a deadpan look, my tone of voice flat, merging on disappointed, “Dude, that’s probably the stupidest question I’ve ever heard. And I spend my day in a high school,”

And with that I thudded up the stairs towards Scott’s room, an unkempt sickness welling in my stomach that’d been sitting there for the majority of the day. I hadn’t mentioned tutoring to Scott, maybe because for the entire day I’d been trying to forget. Surprising right? I’d been so excited at first… but then the way she’d looked at me when Mr. Harris assigned her as my tutor, with that cold piercing glare that seemed to drill into you. As if I was stupid, like I should’ve just stayed down a grade to save her the time and effort.

Why did I have to stumble on my words around her? Why couldn’t I reflect my actually level of intelligence instead of smiling awkwardly and feeling as if I was screwing everything up?

Oh yeah, because I was.

And still, tomorrow she was coming over, however unwillingly, and for the first time in my life the thought of Lydia Martin in my home gave me nausea, and a lovely dosage of anxiety.


End file.
